| Think crucial hanging. Think crayon orange. |
[ sat | 06 june 2009 | 02:31 pm ] |
Crush
Maybe my limbs are made
mostly for decoration,
like the way I feel about
persimmons. You can’t
really eat them. Or you
wouldn’t want to. If you grab
the soft skin with your fist
it somehow feels funny,
like you’ve been here
before and uncomfortable,
too, like you’d rather
squish it between your teeth
impatiently, before spitting
the soft parts back up
to linger on the tongue like
burnt sugar or guilt.
For starters, it was all
an accident, you cut
the right branch
and a sort of light
woke up underneath,
and the inedible fruit
grew dark and needy.
Think crucial hanging.
Think crayon orange.
There is one low, leaning
heart-shaped globe left
and dearest, can you
tell, I am trying
to love you less.
— Ada Limón
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| Eh you'd say and my dream was eh, was all eh, all and only |
[ thu | 21 may 2009 | 12:24 am ] |
EH?
Eh he said and she
dreamed eh. It was
like that between them.
Not that his lips dreamed,
not that his dreamed lips
parted. Eh he’d say
and her dream was eh,
was all eh, all and
only. Sometimes
a near kiss an almost tide
drawn back withdrawn withdrawing.
Sometimes the hackled wave
raised, drew back its lip, sheered
its teeth, coughed its raw
guttural. Or
she herself voicing
involuntary eh
his whatever, his
what-it-is. But
sometimes his naked eh
with her ah alongside—
the rocked hulls nudging nuzzling
or was it scraping what
did she care? Would his eh
oh? How fast she’d
founder, taking on water,
mouth emptying full.
By day she’d hear on the air
his syllable, turn
toward or away, does it
matter? If she said ah
would he dream ah? Oh—
not like that between them.
— Nathalie Anderson
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| "Oranges have no such fate." |
[ mon | 30 march 2009 | 01:33 am ] |
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The rind (also called the skin) of the lemon is difficult to
understand.
It goes around itself in an oval quite unlike the orange which, as
anyone can tell, is a fruit easily to be eaten.
It can be crushed into all sorts of extracts which are
still not lemons. Oranges have no such fate. They're pretty
much the same as they were. Culls become frozen orange
juice. The best oranges are eaten.
It's the shape of the lemon, I guess that causes trouble. It's
ovalness, it's rind. This is where my love, somehow, stops.
— Jack Spicer
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| Why it takes me forever to do things |
[ sun | 22 march 2009 | 02:39 am ] |
Huh!
"I'll tell you in the next lifetime when we're both cats."
Face-eating cats.
***
I wish I could do things on autopilot.
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| Niamh's not-so-happy ending |
[ sat | 21 march 2009 | 02:45 pm ] |
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Niamh is the daughter of Manannan Mac Lir, the sea god. She was the queen of Tir na n-Og, the Land of Eternal Youth. She fell in love with the great bard Oisin and she went to Ireland across the sea on her magic horse, to take Oisin with her. The horse, named Embarr ("imagination"), could run on the waves, so soon the young lady arrived on the west coast of Ireland.
( Read more... )
While she was on land the faeries of Brittany invited her, but she sent just a magic, moving picture of herself. The faeries became very angry at this, and placed her in a deep wood. She wandered around for a long time with a light on her forehead, but finally found the way out. She was disappointed and angry, and returned to Tir na n-Og, but with a magic spell she took all the faeries' children with herself in revenge.
[from Encyclopedia Mythica]
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